


Here's to knowing what you want and getting it

by Lenore



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Obsession, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-21
Updated: 2008-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 18:22:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete knows what he wants. The problem is getting it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here's to knowing what you want and getting it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlackEyedGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackEyedGirl/gifts).



> My official assignment for [](http://community.livejournal.com/yuletide/profile)[**yuletide**](http://community.livejournal.com/yuletide/). Written for [](http://black-eyedgirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**black_eyedgirl**](http://black-eyedgirl.livejournal.com/). Thanks to [](http://krisdia.livejournal.com/profile)[**krisdia**](http://krisdia.livejournal.com/) and [](http://barely-bean.livejournal.com/profile)[**barely_bean**](http://barely-bean.livejournal.com/) for all their help on this story. You can also read it at the Yuletide archive [here](http://yuletidetreasure.org/archive/63/heresto_cmt.html).

"I wanted to talk to you about pitching for Tropicale Cigars."

The sun slants through the blinds. These meetings of theirs always seem to happen in the late afternoon, and whenever Pete thinks of Don, it tends to be with his face half in shadows the way it is now.

Don leans back in his chair. "Go on."

"I've got some contacts over there, and apparently they haven't been happy with Grey for some time. They're having an agency review, and Sterling Cooper has an invite if we want it. It's not a huge budget, but we don't have any tobacco clients. A successful campaign for Tropicale could help us land a much larger fish among the cigarette companies."

"You've got my attention," Don tells him.

Pete launches into what he knows about Tropicale, how he'd recommend going after the business. Don listens without looking at him, the way he does, his expression giving absolutely nothing away. Pete has learned not to wait for encouragement. So it's unaccountable, really, that he suddenly stutters to a stop.

He glances down at his notebook. The words swim, but that's not the problem. He doesn't need notes. He knows it all by heart. He glances back up again. Don raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curling up softly, that mocking almost-smile that Pete sees so often.

_I don't know who I am_. This is the thought that's been spinning around Pete's head for weeks now, and he desperately wants to say it out loud. _My life is a lie, and I don't know how it got that way._ If anyone should understand, it's Don.

The almost-smile transforms into a frown, that impatient pinch between the eyebrows. Pete clears his throat. He carefully forms his mouth around words that are all business. His voice sounds far away.

When he finishes, Don says only, "All right. Get going on it. I'll handle it with Roger. Keep me informed.

There's a moment of nothing. Nothing more to say, but Pete doesn't get up to go. There's always something he wants but doesn't get out of these conversations, even if he doesn't quite know what it is. Don's office feels like a party he leaves too soon, before the really interesting things can happen.

Don gives him a hard look. _Why are you wasting my time?_ Pete has seen that a lot, too.

He gets to his feet, and it's as if he can feel the force of Don's eagerness to be rid of him on his back. He carries a familiar sense of dissatisfaction back to his desk.

* * *

Trudy is in the kitchen when Pete gets home. He hears the clatter of the oven door, the indistinct rustling of dinner underway. It wasn't so long ago that she'd meet him at the door. It wasn't so long ago that she was happy to see him.

He calls out, "I'm home."

She calls back, "How was your day?"

"Fine." He heads to the bar, pours a finger of scotch, drinks it down, and then pours another.

"It's roast beef for dinner. I hope you're hungry."

_I hope you're happy for denying me the one thing I've most wanted in my whole life._

Pete lets out his breath tiredly. He takes another sip of his drink.

They sit down to dinner and make the kind of conversation you strike up with strangers on a train.

"I hear the Met is doing Rigoletto this spring," Trudy ventures.

"Opening night tickets are going to be hard to get, I bet," Pete answers diligently.

By the time the roast, the mashed potatoes, green beans, chocolate pie have all dutifully been eaten, they've exhausted the weather, the various medical complaints of their neighbors, and how much the items on Trudy's grocery list have gone up just since the last time she went to the market.

Trudy rises, reaches for his plate, but Pete says, "I'll do this. It's only fair. You cooked."

The small considerations are never going to make up for the big disappointments, Pete knows, but he keeps trying anyway. He sends Trudy off to the living room to watch TV and carries the dishes back into the kitchen. He runs water in the sink, sticks his arms into the suds. The scalding heat is a welcome respite from the deep freeze of marital politeness.

Trudy has _The Dick Van Dyke Show_ on when he comes into the living room. It's Tuesday. It's what they watch. He sits on the sofa beside her, and they stare straight ahead at the television, the same way they do night after night. It occurs to him, not for the first time: _I don't have to do this, I don't have to be here._ He closes his eyes, because at least that's a little bit like being somewhere else.

In his head, he's standing on a rural lane, edged by rows of corn; in the distance is a farmhouse, more gray than white, as hard scrabble as the land. He hasn't actively chosen this scene, but it doesn't come as much of a surprise that this is what has been churning around in his subconscious. He mined that shoebox of Don's past, picture by picture, memorizing every detail.

Pete shades his eyes. There's a figure in the distance, back bent at a hard angle, the posture of toil. He'd know the outline of that body anywhere. He wills the man to come closer, and finally he's the one with the power. The man straightens, looks over, and starts to amble his way. It's the same gait, but the posture isn't quite as elegantly straight. The shoulders are just a little less square.

The man stops on his side of the fence. Up close, Pete can see the differences even more clearly. This version of the man is slighter, not quite gangling, but he hasn't finished growing into his frame yet. His face is thinner, those sharp cheekbones even more razor-like. There's tension in the way he holds himself, as if he doesn't quite know what he's capable of. The grown-up man has learned to leave that to everyone else to wonder.

"Afternoon," the man says slowly.

Usually Pete is the one doling out the measuring looks. _How do I compare? Can I ever compare?_ But now the shoe is on the other foot. The man's eyes travel over the neat lines of Pete's suit, his carefully knotted tie, freshly shined wingtips. The man doesn't pluck uncomfortably at the coveralls he's wearing or rub at the dirt on his face, but there's a flicker of consciousness in his expression.

Pete smiles cheerfully, uses his best prep school diction. "Good afternoon. It's beautiful weather you're having."

"Yeah, I guess it is." There's a rough-edged twang to the words, and who knows how close that comes to the truth, but Pete enjoys it all the same. "Help you with something?"

"Just doing some sightseeing." He holds out his hand. "Pete Campbell."

"Dick Whitman."

They shake, and there's something so satisfying about making this man observe the common courtesies, an uncommon occurrence in Pete's experience of him.

"A sightseer, huh? Don't get too many of those out here." The corner of Dick's mouth tilts upwards, a precursor of the mocking smile that Pete knows too well.

That's not what he wants, and he has the power now.

"You know what they say about the grass being greener. There's always so much going on in New York. A little jaunt out to the middle of nowhere makes for a nice break."

"New York, huh?" Dick does his best to look like he's not interested, but Pete can see that he's trying.

That in and of itself is a moment of triumph.

"You ever been?" Pete asks, even though he can guess the answer.

_Because_ he can guess it.

Dick shakes his head, eyes cast down at the dirt beneath his feet.

"Well, it's quite a city," Pete tells him with hearty smugness.

"What do you do there?" Dick asks, almost hesitantly, as if he knows his envy is liable to show.

"I work in advertising, Dick," Pete tells him, with perhaps the purest sense of satisfaction he's ever had in his life. "I sell dreams."

There's a flash in Dick's eyes, something sharp and hungry, and it doesn't matter that nothing ends for him here. All that matters is that Dick believes it does. For once, Pete has something this man wants, even if he's had to travel back in time to get it.

"Well," Pete says, "I'd better let you get back to work. That crop isn't going to pick itself, is it?"

Dick's eyes slide reluctantly over to the field, row after row, on and on until it seems to choke the horizon.

"You have a nice day now," Pete tells him, with a stiletto smile.

Dick turns and starts back across the field. Pete waits for it, waits for it, and there it is, finally: Dick glances back over his shoulder. Don has never given Pete a second look.

He opens his eyes, and the television is off, but Trudy is still beside him on the couch.

"I didn't want to wake you," she says before he can ask.

He wonders what she's been doing, sitting there staring at him, or just staring into space cataloguing her resentments.

"I'm going to get ready for bed," she tells him.

Pete listens to the whisper of her skirt as she walks away.

In a little while, he'll follow. He'll change in the bathroom, buttoning his pajamas all the way up to the top. When he comes out, Trudy will already be in bed, eyes closed, pretending to sleep. He'll slip between the chilly sheets, and she'll turn onto her side, her back an unforgiving line. It'll be so much lonelier than actually being alone.

For the longest time, Pete doesn't move.

* * *

Three days into the work on Tropicale, and Pete's desk is covered with pages of sales figures, stacks of competitor advertising, a year's worth of back issues of _Esquire_, as he digs into every last detail about the cigar-smoking man. Research is the less-than-glamorous part of his job, but there's something strangely comforting about this marshalling of facts. Once you know everything, you can find patterns, and those patterns lead to the answers. He often thinks that this is the problem with life: You never have all the information.

His phone rings, and he picks up. "Yes, Glynnis?"

"I have a call for you, Mr. Campbell." She sounds unaccountably nervous, and then it all becomes clear why. "It's, uh, Mr. Phillips."

Pete debates for a moment. Should he take it? Should he say he's in a meeting? Eventually morbid curiosity wins out. Wasn't Pete just appreciating how important it is to have all the facts? It can't hurt to find out what Duck is up to now that his British friends have sent him packing.

"Pete," Duck's voice pulses smoothly over the line, "it's good to talk with you. I hope everything's going well over there?"

"Fine, fine," Pete says with a false smile in his voice.

"Good, good," Duck says, not quite able to keep his disappointment from seeping through into the words.

"And you?" Pete asks politely. "How is everything with you?"

"I can't say I regret my decision to leave," Duck is quick to assure him. "The deal with Putnam Powell just wasn't as sweet as I'd hoped. They see Sterling Cooper as a glorified production house. Not enough independence. Life's too short to be on a short leash."

His huh-huh-huh of a laugh sounds thin and desperate. Pete imagines him sitting in his study, making one fruitless call after the next, staring down the bottle of scotch he has sitting in front of him. When there's no one left to call, he'll lose the battle.

"Oh, I don't know," Pete says meanly. "I haven't noticed any important changes around the place."

Duck pauses, and if he had any pride at all, now would be the time to hang up. "I'm working on something at FCB. There might be an opportunity for—"

"I really wish you well with that," Pete interrupts before Duck can get to the real point of the call.

Of course, a washed out has-been will need some kind of bargaining chip. _Look at the team I'll bring you_. It's the only way he'll get any worthwhile agency to consider taking him on. Pete doubts his was the first name on the list of people to call, but even if it was, there still wouldn't be anything flattering about it. He'd just be a convenient life jacket, and Duck would cling on to anyone or anything to stay afloat.

"Oh, look at the time. I've got to get to a meeting," Pete lies transparently. "You take care now."

He hangs up and goes back to his research. He has the fleeting thought that he hopes Glynnis and the girl on the switchboard won't go gossiping. He wouldn't want Don hearing that he's been talking to Duck and getting the wrong idea about it.

 

(The one time he sees Don all day is from a distance. It's lunchtime, and Pete comes out of his office as Don is striding away, down the long row of desks. Don pulls his hat on, straightens it with a sure touch. Pete is not the only one who stares.)

 

Trudy has gone to her parents for the weekend, and Pete is making the obligatory trip to his mother's. She hasn't exactly forgiven him for throwing his father's ruin in her face, but she has decided to act as if it never happened. Pretending, that's what they do.

Pete's mother reigns over the dinner table, ever the monarch, even if she is a penniless one now. She drones on, telling them more than they ever wanted to know about garden club politics.

"Marguerite Anderson, the poor dear, is still trying to woo her way into our ranks. She had Bernice Tate and Alma Rutledge to tea last week. Was positively insistent that they come, although of course they'd much rather have not. I don't know how long I'll be able to dodge her hints that we have lunch together at the club. That's the problem with these gauche newcomers. No grace. No delicacy. Absolutely no hesitation to intrude where they're not wanted."

The maid makes the rounds of the table with the soup tureen. She leans in to serve Pete's mother, who snaps at her, "Don't slosh, Daisy. How many times have I told you that? I've had just about enough of you and your slovenly ways."

She glares. The girl hurries through the rest of her duties and flees the room.

"Servants," his mother says disdainfully. "They get more frightful by the day. If your father were here, it would all be different. He'd put his foot down. He wouldn't stand for any such shenanigans."

It's not clear whether she's talking to Pete or his brother or the air, but no one answers. They all keep their eyes down, as if the same cream of asparagus soup that's been served at this table every Friday since the beginning of time is suddenly riveting.

When they've finished dining, Pete's mother leads the way to the living room. Bill heads to the bar, invites orders for after-dinner drinks. Their mother takes her usual spot on the sofa. Pete settles on the chair that's farthest away from her.

"You will not believe it when I tell you what they've done down at the club. Redecorating, indeed. You'd think they could have selected someone with taste to lead the steering committee. I made it perfectly well known that, whatever my own personal tribulations have been with your poor father, I would of course be willing to serve if called upon. One's duty must always come first—"

She goes on at length. Her dissatisfactions are seemingly endless. Pete interjects the occasional head nod or noncommittal "mmm." It's a well-honed instinct. He doesn't actually have to listen.

There are only a few pictures of Dick Whitman in uniform. The one Pete likes best shows him sitting at a bar, having a drink, smoking unconcernedly, as if there is no war waiting for him. He's wearing a thin little smile, apparently not all that crazy about having his picture taken. Pete imagines some faceless buddy behind the camera, cajoling him, _Come on, Whit. Say cheese._

It's what Pete hoped for from that trip out to California and didn't get, an evening together, a drink, a conversation, a moment when it all broke open and there were no sides anymore, no uneven ground. Don is all insistent distance at the office, this far, no farther, and Pete has never figured out how to worm his way inside those lines. If he secretly thought that tipping Duck's hand to Don would make a difference, spelling out as clearly as he could _this is where my loyalties lie_…well, that hasn't happened.

He takes a sip of his drink. His mother's voice drones on, and Pete imagines it blurring into the dull rumble of many voices, the bark of laughter, someone calling out, _hey, Bucky, where's that second round, it's your turn to buy._ Pete can feel the worn wood of the bar beneath his elbows, can smell the ancient, lingering stink of stale beer and cigarette smoke, perversely cheerful. He grips his glass in his hands, rolling it between his palms. Then Dick Whitman is sitting there beside him, as pressed and spit-shined as he is in the photograph.

Pete clears his throat to get Dick's attention.

Dick turns his head. His eyes widen with recognition, and he gives Pete a nod of acknowledgement. "Mr. Campbell."

"Pete. Please."

Dick just smiles.

He finishes off the last of his drink, and Pete quickly offers, "Let me get you another one."

Pete signals to the bartender, who serves up another neat whiskey.

"So," Pete searches around for some conversation opener. "Shipping out soon?"

Dick toys with his glass, eyes lowered. "Yep."

The tight-lipped way he says it makes it clear he's not planning to volunteer any further information. Pete tries to think of some other angle, but stalls. Even in his own imagination, he can't find the right words. Beside him, Dick goes on drinking and smoking. Pete can hear every breath he takes, can feel the muscles flex in his arm whenever he lifts his glass. Their elbows are so close they threaten to brush any time either of them moves. Dick seems perfectly content to sit there, not talking, and maybe that's enough. Just to be here with him.

Pete notices a couple of girls on the other side of the bar, one dark, one fair-haired. They look over at him and Dick, then quickly look away. They bend their heads close together and giggle, and look over again. Pete gives Dick a glance out of the corner of his eye. It's clear he hasn't missed the attention.

"Blondes or brunettes?" Pete asks.

It catches Dick by surprise. "Blondes usually," he admits.

"Now, isn't that lucky?" Pete tells him, smiling. "I'm a brunette man, myself."

Dick flicks a look at him and then over at the girls. The blonde waves.

"That's too good an opportunity to pass up," Pete coaxes him.

He watches closely and catches the spark of interest in Dick's expression. He's almost the man he'll be, but not quite. Women drown Don in admiring, speculative looks everywhere he goes. Pete knows he must take some of them up on it sometime, but he's never seen it. He's never seen even a flicker of hesitation. Don just tilts his head, smiles a slight little smile, an acknowledgment and a gentle turndown all in one.

Dick is a different matter, and Pete gets a sudden flash of taking these girls back to a hotel. They'll get one room with two beds, and after a few more drinks, no one will be concerned about the close quarters. Pete imagines tumbling the brunette onto the bed, lying half on top of her, kissing lazily, stroking his hand along her silky stocking. While on the other bed, just a few feet away, Dick does the same thing to his girl.

Heat flares in Pete's belly. He slips off the barstool. Across the way, the girls smile encouragement.

Pete leans in to whisper against Dick's ear, "One last sendoff before you ship out. Come on. You deserve it."

He's so close he can see the muscles in Dick's throat work as he swallows. Dick smells like wool and old cologne and maleness. He meets Pete's gaze and holds it, and he's enough the man he will be that his eyes are bottomless, the look in them unknowable. The overheated sensation in Pete's stomach twists, thrilling and dangerous.

"It is my last night," Dick says at last, his voice low and smooth as glass.

Pete feels the words shiver down his back, like a finger tracing the line of his spine. The girls fade from his thoughts a little more with each passing second.

"We could—"

"Peter."

Dick raises an eyebrow, and Pete tries to hold on to what he was saying.

"_Peter_."

He blinks, and his mother is watching him expectantly. He tries very hard not to sigh.

"I'm sorry?" he says.

She clucks her tongue impatiently. "I wanted to know if you and Trudy will be coming for dinner on Tuesday. I've invited the Shermans. They're new to the neighborhood, and I don't want to have them over to an empty table. First impressions, you know."

"Of course, mother," Pete answers dutifully. "We wouldn't miss it."

That too-hot feeling is still squirming in his stomach, and probably will be for some time. There's not a thing he can do about it.

* * *

"Why does a man smoke a cigar?" Pete ponders aloud at their Monday morning brainstorming session.

He doesn't expect an answer, but of course Peggy pipes up, "To celebrate."

Pete had wanted Don to assign Kinsey to the pitch, but instead he'd insisted, "Get a woman's perspective. It'll balance out the approach."

"That's only special occasions," Pete points out. "We want the man who chooses cigars on a daily basis."

Peggy's brow knits together. "Maybe it's the ritual of it. I mean, you can smoke a cigarette while you're rushing down the street. But a cigar—"

Salvatore nods. "It demands to be savored."

Pet stares contemplatively off into distance. "So it's about making the commonplace into something to celebrate. A man comes home from work. All day he's been the master of everything he touched. He has the sense of satisfaction that comes with a job well done. And now it's time to reward himself."

"The line is something like—" Peggy mulls it over. "'It's been a good day. And Tropicale just made it better.'"

"What's the visual?" Salvatore asks. "If it's at home after work, then a man relaxing in his easy chair, maybe."

"It has to show men who they want to be, not necessarily who they are," Pete says.

"So the easy chair is…a leather wingback," Peggy picks up the thread. "The room is richly paneled. The man is handsome, well dressed. He has a tumbler in one hand, and a Tropicale in the other. There's a slight smile on his face. He's quietly confident."

She and Salvatore go back and forth some more about the details of the art. Pete looks on with the kind of out-of-body sensation that's only supposed to happen when you're dying. No one watching him and Peggy would guess that there had ever been anything personal between them. Certainly, no one would suspect that after-hours conversation. _I could have had you in my life forever, but I wanted other things._

Pete's life is a lie. Now that he's starting thinking this, he can't seem to stop. He remembers his and Trudy's visit to the fertility doctor, how blithely he'd answered the doctor's question. No children. Of course, he didn't know it was a lie at the time, but if he had, he would have told it anyway. And maybe it really wouldn't have been false. Can you honestly call a child you'll never see or hold or teach to hit a curve ball your own? Can you really love someone who could have chosen you, but didn't? When lies become second nature, how can you tell the difference anymore?

They wrap up the brainstorming. Salvatore and Peggy go off to work on mockups for their meeting that afternoon with Don. Glynnis comes in with a stack of pink phone messages. Pete digs into them, putting out fires, soothing ruffled clients with flattery and easy promises.

After lunch, he regroups with Peggy and Salvatore to see the work in progress. It's in good enough shape to show Don.

He calls them in around four. It's Pete's job to do the set up, and suddenly he has Peggy's voice in his head, _One day you're there, and all of a sudden there's less of you, and you wonder where that part went_. He throws himself into the explanation of their concept as much to make her shut up as to sell Don on the idea. He focuses on the curl of Don's fingers around his cigarette, the lifting, lowering of his hand as he smokes. The words just kind of spill out of him: _A man needs to feel that what he does matters, that he takes up space in the world. He's looking for something to reflect him back to himself, not the way he is, but the way he could be._

Peggy jumps in when he's finished and walks Don through the boards, reading the headlines and the splash of copy she's written.

"The images are still rough, of course," Salvatore chimes in. "When they're finished, the ads will have a rich, polished feeling."

The room goes quiet. Don stares into the thin air, as if he can pluck the answers out of it.

"I like it," he says at last. "Pete, you take the lead. You seem to have a feeling for it."

Peggy stiffens. One of these days, she's going to have the courage to start arguing these decisions of Don's. It's all just a matter of time, a little more experience, a little more confidence. And then...well, Pete will be interested to see what happens.

They gather up the boards and leave. Don barely seems to notice. He's already focused on something else.

Outside, Peggy hesitates before heading back to her office. "Don's right. You do have a feel for this. I'm— It's good you'll be taking the lead."

Clearly it costs her to admit this, and Pete recognizes the expression on her face so well. Looking at Peggy is like looking into a slightly more flattering mirror. Maybe that's always been the attraction, and it was just easier to ignore the truth when she was still hidden away by that deceptive shyness, something that grows more scarce by the day. Only weeks ago he was declaring himself to her, but now he has to wonder. Could he ever really love someone who is so much like him?

He returns to his desk, but he can't sit still, can't concentrate. That restless feeling is back again, under his skin, as confusing as ever. On impulse, he calls Trudy. "I'm sorry to do this at the last minute, but I really need to take some clients out tonight. You shouldn't expect me until late."

He knows dinner is probably already on the stove, ruined now, but all Trudy says is, "Don't work too hard."

On his way out of the office, Kinsey waylays him, "Campbell, we're going to Morretti's. We hear you had Draper eating out of your hand today. We want to pump you for the secrets of your success."

Kinsey has the usual suspects assembled for the trip to the bar. They snicker and call out good-naturedly, "Come on. Maybe some of that old Campbell magic will rub off on us."

"Not tonight, fellas," Pete says with a genial smile. "Can't disappoint the wife."

This is, perhaps, the biggest lie he's told all day.

There's a little place Pete knows that serves for occasions like this, a poorly lit hole in the wall. Everybody who comes here understands not to ask impertinent questions like _what's your name_ or _are you married_. No one goes home alone if they don't want to.

He settles at the bar, orders a gin and tonic, and lights up a cigarette. It's not long before he has company. She's blonde, out of a bottle, with a wide mouth and the reddest lipstick he's ever seen.

"This seat isn't taken, is it?" The woman tilts her head at a coquettish angle.

"It is now," he tells her with an appreciative leer.

She smiles and takes out a cigarette. He leans closer to light it.

"What are you drinking?" he asks.

"Sidecar."

He nods to the bartender, who makes the drink and delivers it.

The woman takes a sip, leaving a ruby smudge on the rim of the glass. "You're a sport." She smiles kittenishly.

Pete smiles back. "I do my best."

"Easy on the eyes, too." The woman presses closer, her décolletage practically tumbling out of her dress.

He bends his head to whisper confidentially in her ear, "I'm pretty sure that's supposed to be my line."

"A charmer, too." She turns just so, and her breasts brush his sleeve. "Such a nice night. It'd be a shame to let it go to waste spending it alone."

It's this easy. Another drink, another empty compliment or two, and she'll leave on his arm. Really, he might not have to work that hard. He thought this was exactly what he wanted, but now that he has it, he can't help imagining Don in this place. He pictures women swarming around him, and the polite, but firm smile flashed at each one. _Thanks, but no thanks._ If he has women besides his wife, it doesn't happen like this.

"I always say it's nice to have company," the woman drops her voice meaningfully.

He turns a sideways glance on her, and now that he's really paying attention, he sees the too-heavy makeup, caked at the corners of her mouth, the harsh line of painted eyebrow, the scent of desperation beneath the cheap lily of the valley perfume. If Don has women besides his wife, they're not like this.

Discontent settles over Pete again, a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach. He tips back the rest of his drink, hoping the alcohol will burn away the sensation.

"I've got an early meeting in the morning." Pete slides off the barstool, folding his coat over his arm. "I'll say good night now."

He ignores the way the woman's face falls and doesn't spare a backward glance as he heads for the door. Whatever he wants, he's not going to find it here.

The nights are getting warmer, and Pete decides to walk instead of taking a cab. Sixty blocks between him and home, and there's no reason to rush. He crosses Union Square and starts up Fifth Avenue. As he's passing a movie theater, someone steps out of the shadows and falls into step with him. Pete has the New Yorker's instinct to ignore strangers, so it takes him a moment to realize it's not a stranger at all.

"It's kind of early to be calling it a night, isn't it?" Dick is wearing a soft smile that makes Pete's stomach do a nervous little flip-flop.

"Trudy," Pete stammers, "she's waiting—"

"That's not what you want."

It isn't a question. There's not a glimmer of doubt in the words. The look Dick gives Pete is so piercing it could cut right through him.

"I, uh—" Pete feels his face turning hot.

Because it's true. Going home to Trudy isn't what he wants. Not at all.

Dick jerks his head. "I know a place. Come on."

He leads the way down a side street, then another and another. The block gets seedier with each step until Dick finally stops in front of a smudged stone-faced building with a faded awning, Chandler Arms Hotel. There's no sign advertising "rooms by the hour," but it's certainly implied.

Dick heads for the stairs, leaving Pete to deal with the clerk behind the glass divider. He asks for a room, mumbling and red-faced, and hands over enough cash for the night. The clerk pushes a key at him, smirking. Pete doesn't know when even his own imagination slipped out of his control, but here it is.

He finds Dick on the first landing, waiting.

"Number 233," Pete tells him, looking anywhere but at Dick.

_Maybe we'll just have a drink_, he thinks a little desperately. When he swings the door open, there's a bottle of rye and two glasses magically sitting there. Maybe his subconscious hasn't completely betrayed him, after all.

"Would you like—" Pete makes a beeline for the bottle. His hands shake as he twists the top off.

Dick doesn't say anything. He crowds close, almost but not quite touching. Pete can feel the heat coming off his body. Can smell his scent again, that he remembers from the last time, faded cologne and wool and effortless confidence. Dick gives him a knowing smirk. Pete wants to close his eyes to shut it out, but he doesn't, because that would be an admission of sorts. Because he isn't— He doesn't—

He lurches forward, fumbles a kiss onto Dick's mouth. It's barely more than a peck, but Pete's heart is slamming against his ribs nonetheless. Dick doesn't do anything, doesn't move away or kiss back or punch Pete in the jaw. He just...waits. Pete licks his lips, tries to swallow, but his throat is so dry. He leans in again, and his lips catch against Dick's, skin dragging over skin, warm and full of promises.

Pete can hardly breathe, but for the first time in a long time, nothing is eating away at him. He takes a breath and parts his lips, parts Dick's lips with his tongue. He hasn't ever imagined what it would be like to kiss another man, and even if he had, he couldn't have guessed this. That it would be strangely like kissing a woman, except in all the ways that it's completely different.

Dick is taller and broader through the chest than Pete is, and when Dick pushes him back against the wall, he feels the impact. Feels everything, the hitch of breath in his lungs, the way the floor seems to vibrate beneath his feet, the familiar heaviness between his legs. Dick forces their mouths together. He bites at Pete's lip and kisses like he's exercising some right of ownership. There's an embarrassing little whimpering noise in the room, and Pete realizes with a startled flush that it's coming from him.

"You like this," Dick says, almost analytically, rubbing Pete's arousal through his trousers.

Pete sucks in a shaky breath and bangs his head back against the wall. This is supposed to be the one place where he's unquestionably in control. The impulse to push into Dick's hand does nothing to further this illusion, and he'd like to make himself stop, but he's weak. So weak.

"Show me what else you want," Dick says.

Orders, really.

Pete's cock jerks, and his hands stutter to the buttons of his shirt. He doesn't just want. He wants to be _better_. If he can't have that, at least he can— He slides his jacket off and lets it fall. Dick watches dispassionately as the rest of Pete's clothes hit the floor in a messy pile: his tie and shirt, his undershirt and trousers. Pete hesitates. Dick doesn't say anything, doesn't issue another order or offer any encouragement. It's all up to Pete now. He takes a deep breath and pushes his boxers down his legs. He's trembling, and the urge to cross his arms in front of himself is nearly impossible to resist.

Dick strokes a hand lightly up Pete's side. "What else?"

Pete's throat hurts. He doesn't move.

"Come on," Dick coaxes. "You know what you want."

He takes Pete by the arm, guides him over to the bed, bends him over the foot of it, shoving a pillow beneath his hips. Pete goes along in a daze, letting Dick move him, pose him. He thinks fuzzily: _Is this really what I've been wanting?_ He can't believe it is. But then Dick unzips his trousers, and the sound shivers along every nerve in Pete's body. He moans softly and pushes his hips into the pillow. Maybe he's been telling himself lies for so long he can't rightfully judge what he wants anymore.

Dick moves closer. There's warmth against Pete's back before there's contact, and then he feels the press of cotton and wool and heated flesh on his naked skin. He understands what's going to happen in the abstract, but that does nothing to prepare him. All the air leaves his body. He grabs at the bedspread, his fingers slipping on the cheap fabric. He wants to say, "stop," but doesn't, and it wouldn't matter anyway.

Dick's hands are relentless on his hips, clutching, pulling at him, controlling him. There's no dignity in any of this for Pete, head down, taking it, whatever Dick wants to do with him. Pride makes a last stand, and he tries to squirm away. It's a futile little rebellion, though, because his heart's not really in it.

Dick seems to understand this. He leans closer, his breath hot on the back of Pete's neck. Pete shudders, deep, wrecking tremors all over his body, and gives in. Surrenders. He's not sure if it's cause and effect, or simply coincidence, but as soon as he lets go, the experience transforms. Oh, it still hurts, but now it hurts _exquisitely_.

The only sounds in the room are Pete's embarrassing little pleasure noises. They get louder and more desperate until Pete can't hear anything at all.

He drifts for a while afterwards, until the uncomfortable position he's slumped in finally motivates him to stir. He sits up, looks around. Dick— no, _Don_, it's definitely Don lounging in the chair next to the bed, balancing a cigarette gracefully between his fingers. He tilts his head back, exhales a stream of smoke. His gaze settles on Pete. He has the same expression he gets when he considers a concept, as unreadable as ever.

"You've always known what you want," he says at last.

He stubs out his cigarette in the bedside ashtray, leisurely rises to his feet and leaves. Believing he was ever in control of any of this, Pete realizes belatedly, has been the biggest lie of all.

The hotel room drifts away when Pete reaches his building. He stares up at the windows and thinks of Trudy: tidying the kitchen, flipping through a magazine, imagining a life where the chaos of children drowns out the low-grade unhappiness. Maybe Pete would be doing them both a favor if he turned around right now, but there's nowhere else to go.

* * *

The conference room at Tropicale, predictably, has the look of a British gentleman's club, polished mahogany walls and padded leather chairs around the table. The clients array themselves at one end, gray-haired, grave-faced, like a panel of judges ready to convict or members of the Inquisition. In the center is Gregory Aronson, the third generation of Aronsons to run the company, the only person in the room they need to convince.

Don begins, "Gentlemen, we all know that changing a man's preference in tobacco is no easy task. Every brand claims to be the smoothest, the best tasting. It makes those claims virtually meaningless. So we have to ask ourselves: why does a man choose one cigar over another? It's an association. A feeling. It's the scent of fine leather. The view from the corner office. It's the feeling that he's the master of his own domain."

A pitch is all seduction, and Don is the master of it. His voice unfurls through the room, deep and resonant, holding everyone transfixed. Pete keeps a politely attentive expression plastered on his face, but every word sends an unaccountable thrill down his back. It doesn't seem to matter that Pete has heard it all so many times before, that he knows all Don's tricks: the way his voice drops down into the gravelly octave when he wants to drive home a point, how he looks into the distance at something no one else can see, that he always says just enough to leave everyone wanting more. Pete is as vulnerable to it as anyone hearing it for the first time.

Don tents his fingers contemplatively when he's finished and nods to Pete to take over.

He rises to his feet, careful to look anywhere but at Don. "Tropicale is for the man who has arrived and the man who's on his way up. It's about who a man is and who he will be. It says: I know what I want, and I know how to get it. Nothing is out of my league. In my world, there's always something to celebrate."

Pete glances appraisingly down at the other end of the conference table, and they're all still with him.

"Now Miss Olsen will take you through the creative."

Peggy smiles and rises to her feet. "Gentlemen, let me present the Tropicale man."

The rest of the meeting passes in a blur for Pete. There's the rise and fall of Peggy's voice as she takes them through the boards, followed by the bluster of small talk, the press of hands as they say their thank-yous.

"We hope to make a decision before the end of the month," Mr. Aronson says, in a voice that makes absolutely no promises.

Clients like to play hard to get, but Pete can tell they've hit the mark. Mr. Aronson himself walks them to the elevator, which is almost always a sure sign. They all shake hands again. Peggy and Salvatore step into the car.

Pete is just about to follow when Mr. Aronson says, "Actually, I have one more question, if I might."

The elevator doors close before the others can scramble off. Pete catches a glimpse of Peggy's expression, accusatory dismay as if this is somehow Pete's fault.

"I'm wondering how the campaign will translate into radio if we decide to go that way," Mr. Aronson says.

Don wings it, so seamlessly no one would ever guess they didn't have a stack of radio scripts ready to go back at the office.

Mr. Aronson shakes their hands robustly, the grave-faced judge nowhere in evidence now. "A very informative presentation, gentlemen. Thank you again for your time."

Pete and Don take the next elevator. It's just the two of them, and in the close confines, Pete can't seem to think about anything but the shape of Don's body beneath his suit, the clean scent of his soap, the casually elegant way he occupies his own space.

Don seems to have no interest in making conversation, but the silence is making Pete practically jump out of his own skin.

"I think it went well," Pete blurts out, just to have something to say.

"Timing is everything in this business, Campbell. No celebrating a pitch before you've even left the building."

Pete lets out his breath. "Right."

"But," Don says, with the hint of a smile. "I wouldn't be surprised if the call has already come by the time we make it back to the office."

The elevator doors open, and Don strolls off. Pete lags behind, a little slack-jawed. From Don Draper, that was suspiciously like a compliment.

Outside, Peggy and Salvatore are waiting.

"What did Mr. Aronson want?" Peggy asks, her expression wide open with curiosity.

"Back at the office," Don says, cutting off further discussion.

"Right," Pete says, because his vocabulary seems to have been reduced down to that one syllable.

He strides over to the curb and busies himself flagging taxis. He's by turns relieved and disappointed that he and Don end up in separate cabs

Back at Sterling Cooper, they're met at the door by Miss Holloway. "Mr. Draper, I have a message for you from Mr. Aronson. He said that they were all very impressed with your team and the work you presented. Tropicale Cigars is pleased to choose Sterling Cooper as their new agency of record."

Cheers go up all across the office.

Don gives Pete a sideways smile. "Now we celebrate."

They file into Don's office. He hands drinks around and produces a box of Tropicales. They all light up, even Peggy, who coughs on the smoke as if she's about to choke to death. The rest of them laugh. Peggy turns slightly pink in the cheeks, but she goes back for another puff, her expression set with determination.

Don lifts his glass. "Good work, everyone. Here's to men—" He tilts his head toward Peggy. "—and women knowing what they want and getting it."

There's a chorus of "cheers" and "here's here." Pictures flash through Pete's head. The flex of biceps. Long, bare legs. Don's fingers working the buttons of his exquisitely tailored shirt. Pete takes a healthy slug of his drink. Warmth uncurls in his belly. It has nothing to do with the alcohol.

They stand around drinking and smoking and congratulating themselves through a second round.

Then Don claps his hands. "All right. Enough resting on our laurels. Go get back to work."

Pete deposits his glass on the bar, falls into line with everybody else as they file out of the office.

"Pete."

It's Don, and it's his first name, and Pete stutters to a stop, turns back around slowly.

"You did a nice job on this one."

He meets Pete's eye, square on, and for once, there's no sense that Don is just waiting for the moment to be over, waiting for Pete to be out of his sight.

"Thanks," Pete manages to say like a reasonable person.

But there's nothing reasonable about how he feels, nothing reasonable about this deep, lingering ache.

Pete has always known what he wants. The problem is getting it.


End file.
